The Lazarus Strain
by Nymbis
Summary: Arresting a deceased marine for the theft of viral research leads to dangerous complications for Sherry Birkin and her self-invited, overprotective partner. Especially when said research is the key component to an evil resurrection. Trapped in the Altai Mountains, it's up to Sherry and Jake to keep a dead man alive or face the consequences. Sherry/Jake, Billy/Rebecca, Leon/Ada.
1. Prologue: An Offer (He Couldn't Refuse)

**The Lazarus Strain**

**Summary: **A routine mission is complicated for Sherry Birkin when the rogue agent she apprehends is supposed to be a dead marine. Combined with an overprotective mercenary for a partner and yet another government conspiracy after her blood, life isn't going to be easy in the DSO. Sherry/Jake, Billy/Rebecca, full cast.

**AN: **This fic is adapted from a Billy/Rebecca fic I started a million years ago and later scrapped, so if this first chapter seems familiar I apologize. Heavy focus on Sherry, with Sherry/Jake and Billy/Rebecca as the main pairings. Leon, Ada, Helena, Hunnigan, Chris, The Merchant, and Jill will also be featured with some side pairings thrown in for fun. I aimed for plot with romance as opposed to romance with plot, and I plead artistic license for any military or genetic procedure I will inevitably screw up. Enjoy!

**Prologue: An Offer (He Couldn't Refuse)  
**THE PANAMA CANAL.  
PANAMA.  
16 JULY 2011.

Sweat made the shirt cling to nearly every surface of his torso, his back releasing slowly from the chair as he stood. It wasn't the first time he had come to Central America and its overly warm climate, but it was the first time he had visited in the middle of July. And as a bead of sweat dropped from his forehead and rolled to the underside of his chin, he was finding that he wasn't in a hurry to repeat the experience. In fact, his mind was beginning to remember his latest outpost in the remotes of Edonia with heart-warming fondness. Never a good sign. Edonia, he believed quite firmly, was where a man went to die, frostbitten and alone and forgotten.

That had almost been the case, actually.

The ferry he was on rocked to a slow stop. The trip had been miserable, as the last ride out was one hosted by a touring company. Which meant the ride was overpopulated with tourists. A blender of foreign languages and camera clicks permeated the air almost as certainly as the smell of his sweat. Three times since boarding he had been asked to take pictures of harangued, overtired couples and their over exuberant children. The fourth family had seen his reaction to the third family and wisely asked the fat man in the corner wearing a loud Hawaiian print shirt to snap a Polaroid instead.

Whoever coined this situation as 'fun' needed their head examined. Or removed.

"Welcome to the Panama Canal, the man-made natural wonder-!" He snorted. Man-made and natural did not belong in the same category. He tuned out the sound system as the welcome was repeated in rapid Spanish, then rapid French, and finally rapid what he assumed was Japanese.

Tourists.

Miserably he wiped the back of his hand across the flat of his forehead. Fucking tourists.

Time to get off the damn boat.

The pier was crowded, swarmed with an army of tourists, shippers, and merchants. The port was a hybrid of industry and commercialism- a towering, behemoth of a shipping frigate was docked next to the brightly painted _PANAMA ADVENTURES! _ferry and neither looked out of place. Children ran around playing tag next to greasy dock workers, soccer moms fussed in their purses next to loud, swearing foremen with clipboards. Hole in the wall bars with shattered windows were nestled cozily next to booths selling sunglasses and freshly squeezed lemonade. It was a clusterfuck.

It was a place to get lost.

His left hand tightened around the handle of his sweat-soaked leather briefcase, and he moved his considerable bulk through the masses. Thankfully, when a man was in service in his particular line of work as long as he was, the crowds tended to part. His expensive, Italian business loafers were almost immediately coated in dirt, mud, and whatever other grime the canal had to offer. They matched the now sweat-ruined Armani suit perfectly. Fucking fantastic.

He walked down the stretch of the docks for a few minutes before his eyes rested on a bar sign. The establishment didn't look like anything special. Corrugated metal for a roof and sides, the edges of which showed hints of rusting. A heavy door, with a small window at the top of it and what looked like the remnants of buckshot near the handle. Another piece of shit dive, or at least a bar that gave the appearance of one. Making a building look like something out of a B Western was one of the fastest ways to convince the tourist families that another place might be more hospitable towards the samplers of the 'local fare'. It was, cheekily enough, called The Dancing Rooster.

He lifted his free hand to his face and nudged a side button on his watch with his chin. The wristwatch illuminated purple, lights dancing before a 3-D display popped up. A miniature version of the building in front of him hovered over his watch's platform. Perfect. For some reason, he thought tracking down this particular mercenary would have been a bigger challenge.

He tugged down again on his tie, already loose, and walked in. The door opened and shut with a heavy, ominous boom. As his eyes adjusted to the lighting, he was quickly able to discern that the book didn't match the cover. With plush area carpets, antique sitting chairs, and what looked to be an expensive collection of brandy bottles behind the counter- the dive bar on the inside made the impression of an old Gentleman's Hunting Club, the sort of place where rich men smoked Cuban cigars, hid from their trophy wives, and compared their millions in bellied laughter.

His entrance made several heads turn towards the door, then down again. If the rumors of the place were true, the occupants of the bar knew how to assess a person quickly, and then equally as fast return to their own business.

After all, The Dancing Rooster was the biggest mercenary bar in Central America.

He did feel a little disheartened when he noticed none of the occupants- all dressed less expensively and more suitably for the weather than him- went to check their weapons. Apparently he didn't cut as much of an imposing figure in a pit-stained Armani dress shirt and muddy slacks as he was hoping for. He slid his aviator sunglasses to the top of his head and walked to the bar.

There were three occupants positioned next to the barkeep. One he immediately identified as Not It due to the enormous bald spot conquering the few resisting strands of snow-white comb-over. Too old. His contact was situated somewhere in his thirties. 'He' also eliminated the other customer- a woman solidly into her forties and slamming shots of tequila like a frat boy at his first mixer.

That left occupant number three. He took a second to evaluate the man's back before sitting next to him. He immediately stood apart from the others in that he was wearing a high-collared, long-sleeved shirt—which was a thin fabric but still an unusual choice for the temperature. Not that he, wearer of the destroyed three-piece suit, could cast any stones in that department. His hair was longer than what he expected of an ex-service man, brushing the top of his shoulders. Though he sat comfortably nursing what looked like an Old Fashioned, there was a tenseness along his shoulders and back that portrayed he was ready to go for the gun resting in the holster on his side in a moment's notice.

The wearer of ruined Armani set his briefcase on the counter before sitting next to him.

The bartender, a dark-looking woman covered in tattoos and piercings, rose an eyebrow at him.

"A Manhattan."

A glass of straight rye whiskey was dumped in front of him. _Cheap, _room-temperature rye whiskey. He tried to restrain the outburst that was threatening to bubble up.

"Sorry," his contact's voice was smooth with a hint of gravel, "The owners aren't favorable to strangers here. Suits even less."

He turned to the speaker, "Enrico Marquez?"

His contact nodded. His eyes were a sharp brown, and he got the impression that Enrico was the sort of man who missed nothing.

He turned to the barkeep to give her a nasty scowl before he snapped open the clasps of his briefcase with startling efficiency. Even though none of the bar's customers turned to look, he knew they were listening in. Briefcases meant missions. Missions meant money. Mercenaries, as a general rule, were fans of money.

"Then let's get down to business before the charming staff offers me a Molotav."

Enrico's expression didn't shift from a bland disinterest, though he knew it to be to the contrary. Otherwise the man wouldn't have shown up for the job...interview. It had taken months of careful enticement, of thorough background research and expensive bribes, but the man in the ruined Armani was confident that he had…Enrico right where he wanted him.

"I understand that you have a background in this sort of…extraction?"

Enrico gave a sharp, curt nod. _Semper Fidelis _didn't leave a man that easily, Armani noted with humor.

"Here is our information regarding the case, and the outline perimeters of what your mission entails. A more thorough debriefing will occur pending your acceptance of the job and a formal disclosure contract, of course."

Enrico grunted in affirmation, an eyebrow raising when Armani slid him a thin, non-descript manila folder, "Hard-copy?"

"Safer. We've had an unfortunate obstacle with our digital information being…compromised."

Plus, Armani wanted the drama of black and white photographs. After years in the field, one took one's pleasures where one could.

A flash of paranoia- or was it caution at this stage?- appeared in Enrico's stare. "Doesn't inspire a lot of trust."

"Don't get your panties in a twist, the matter has been dealt with to the standards of the DSO. I consider myself an overly-cautious man, and the DSO doesn't run on the reputation of a few straggling fuck-ups."

The tension in his expression didn't falter, "You know my conditions to accepting a job?"

Armani waved a hand flippantly, "No personal information or background checks will be conducted on the acceptance of your position." Mostly because they were conducted before the name 'Enrico Marquez' even blipped on the radar, "We have no use for your history, Marquez. Only your skills." A lie. But a convincing one.

The tension eased slightly from his expression, and Enrico sent Armani a level stare before he turned his attention to the contents of the folder.

The first article was a glossy black and white photograph showing a bird's-eye view of what appeared to be a traditional university- except said university was nestled firmly in snow-capped mountains with only one, narrow road leading downward.

"Research Base Gamma, or as it's been dubbed by its staff, 'Rocky'. Accessible only by helicopter," Armani explained, the unspoken truth of its location clear: _Top priority, confidential. _

"Stateside?"

Armani fought down the grin he so desperately wanted to show, "Russia. Exact location will be disclosed after a contract is finalized."

Enrico nodded, a finger trailing down the narrow road, "Thought you said it was only accessed by helicopter?"

"A supply line, maintained by heavy guard and only used for emergency situations," Armani prayed to whatever god that could find him as he took a sip of the whiskey. It tasted like cat piss, but he was still breathing so the optimist in him concluded it wasn't poisoned.

"Anything underground?"

"Exact details will be disclosed after an official contract."

Enrico snorted, flipping it over. The next article was what appeared to be a logbook: dates, ID numbers, but no names.

"Our current research staff. As you can see, it's exclusive."

Six ID numbers. One of which was highlighted in acid yellow.

"And this one?"

"Our compromised head of research," Armani muttered.

"Compromised how?"

"A bullet in the back of the head."

The slightest twitch in the corner of Enrico's mouth was the only tell he gave as he flipped to another logbook. The same fare greeted him: dates, ID numbers, but no names. This logbook, however, spread four pages. "And this?"

"Support staff."

"Awful big."

"We value our independence."

_Security. Lots and lots of security. _

Enrico turned the logbook over. Underneath another file rested, detailing the security protocol, the shift rotations, and research lab hours of operation.

"That's it?" Enrico stated in disbelief at the minimal information.

"I'm not at liberty to disclose anything else until we have a formalized contract."

Enrico shook his head, "No one takes a job with this little intel."

Armani grit his teeth and tossed back the remaining contents of his cat piss, "Then I'll be straight with you. This is a DSO-funded operation, but strictly off the DSO books. Research Gamma is conducting experiments in a sensitive and highly classified area of national defense. Six months ago, someone on the inside murdered our head researcher and stole her data. Our head researcher was brilliant, born for the think tank, but she was also trained by specialist military companies in self-defense, firearms, security systems, and demolitions. So whoever this agent is, they know what they're doing to get the drop on her. Which means they're associated with someone organized. The United States government can't allow that data to go public, or we risk not only international disaster but possibly war."

Enrico shook his head, "So what do you want with me?"

"We need someone off our books to go to Russia, conduct an investigation, and find the son of a bitch." Armani's mouth twisted into a scowl, "Using any means necessary. Again, there's potential for war with thousands if not millions of casualties."

His contact sighed, rolling his shoulders. Armani noticed a peak of black ink stretched across the skin of his neck, almost entirely hidden by the collar of his shirt. Smart, but not smart enough. "What's the life expectancy for someone who takes the job?"

Honesty is the best policy, "Minimum."

Enrico groaned, "And the pay?"

Now Armani let that grin finally show, "Well worth your while, I promise."

"I want at least twenty million. American."

Armani snorted, "You'll be far more interested in my counter-offer, if you accept."

Enrico stared at him with distrust, taking another slow drink of his Old Fashioned. "Do I get tech support?"

"The best," Armani cracked his back, "And option for a protective detail."

Enrico actually laughed at that, a dark chuckle that made the hairs on the back of Armani's neck stand up straight, "Right. Protective detail, not a babysitter."

"That's right. Do you accept?"

A long silence stretched, and it seemed as if the entire bar had gone silent except for the slow, repetitive noise of the fans on the ceiling. "I guess I have nothing better to do."

Armani nodded, again trying not to show the smugness he was desperately feeling, as he pulled out another document from his briefcase and slid it to him, "Our standard disclosure."

Enrico took the contract and read through it. Armani knew it was basic information for a mercenary of Marquez's caliber: Top Secret confidentiality and discretion, maiming or death not the responsibility of the DSO, and of course, the fact that while Marquez would have access to all of the DSO's resources and staff, if he were caught the DSO would deny any affiliation.

He signed.

Armani smiled, knowing what came next would cement whether or not their intel into this mercenary was correct, "Welcome aboard, here's a more thorough profile on our late head researcher."

He slid another, thicker manila file to him. Enrico took it and opened it with the same smooth, detached countenance.

Then everything about him- from his breathing, to his movement, to even his heartbeat, seemed to freeze in an instant as he took in the profile of Rocky's head researcher. _Hell yes, _Armani thought, _We got you now, don't we?_

"What the hell is this?" Enrico spat, a cold fury overtaking him as he slammed the manila folder back on the counter.

"Our intel."

"Bullshit!" He turned and glared, a hand going for his gun, "How do you know about her?"

Armani kept his posture relaxed, his hands folded together neatly, "As you've been briefed, that is our late head of research at our facility in Russia."

"You're lying."

"No, I'm not. Read the file, and the one underneath it. We'll make the next point of contact within forty-eight hours. Get your affairs in order." Armani shut his briefcase with the finality of a man shutting a casket. He stood, ignoring the palpable rage that radiated from the man beside him and clapped a hand on his shoulder, leaning down by his ear. "We look forward to working with you against this threat, _Mr. Marquez_."

With that, Armani withdrew and took a leisurely walk towards The Dancing Rooster's exit. He was in no damn hurry to go back out into the heat.

After Armani left The Dancing Rooster, Enrico grabbed the glass he was drinking from and hurled it against the wall with all his strength. It shattered, and no one looked up from their own affairs as shards of glass crashed down to the floor. He slumped on his stool, turning the file over with a beaten, destroyed expression as two profiles slid from the folder:

_**Chambers, Rebecca S. **__PhD(s): Molecular Biology, Organic Chemistry, Genetics. F. Age 29. Head of Research at DSO Research Facility Gamma.  
Former Affiliations: S.T.A.R.S., Bravo. Discharged with honor and distinction.  
Deceased. _

And underneath it:

_**Coen, William F.**__ Lieutenant, United States Marine Corps. M. Age 26. Dishonorably discharged. Court-martialed. Further information classified.  
__Deceased._

The bartender wordlessly passed Enrico Marquez another Old Fashioned, which he finished in a long, steady drink.


	2. Debriefed

WASHINGTON D.C.  
UNITED STATES OF AMERICA  
17 MARCH 2009

_He had been staring at her through the thick, plexiglass window for at least a few minutes now. And it made him feel like a creep. He _was_ a creep. It was hard not to be when the main job in this internship was to watch her vitals fluctuate after she took her vitamins. Four times a day, every day. And it felt wrong. Like stalking. Federally- funded stalking._

_But today, there was a rumor going around the research facility that could change a few things. Someone had finally put an end to Albert Wesker, meaning that the princess might be freed from her tower…_

_He winced at his own mental dialogue. All this time in the lab was turning his brain into mush. Still, there were worse government internships out there. His roommate, Freddy, was stuck gathering soil samples for the DNR for hours on end. Watching Sherry Birkin was a hell of a lot better than watching dirt._

_Beyond the plexiglass window, Sherry looked up from a book she was reading. Straight at him. Damn, how long had he been staring again?_

_She waved and gave a small smile, the PA system echoing a tinny version of her voice in the observation room where he sat, "Hi Peter."_

_He had to have been blushing up to the tops of his ears, but he hesitantly pushed the comm channel's "talk" button, "H-hey Sherry." He had to say something. Anything. "What are you reading?" Smooth. Because he hadn't asked her that fifty times already._

"_Same as yesterday," her smile morphed into an amused grin. They repeated this conversation at least four times a week. Asking Sherry 'What's new?' or 'How was your day?' almost seemed cruel. At least Peter was getting paid to sit in a white room all day._

_Still, in order to have a conversation, he had to provide something new. He liked talking to Sherry, even if he was miserable at it. Peter was brilliant: the star of his genetics program at Ivy University, specifically requested for a highly competitive internship program with the top officials of the US government. But he couldn't string two sentences together around the pretty blonde._

_Not even when they were separated by twenty feet, two armed guards, and a liberal amount of plexiglass. Shit. He was hopeless._

"_Your cell count looks good today." God damn it. Why couldn't he just. Speak normal. _

"…_Thanks." Her normally cheerful voice had a bit of a resigned edge to it as she started to turn back to her book._

_He looked down, appropriately mollified until an idea occurred to him. Peter knew he wasn't supposed to tell her. Not yet, not until his supervisors had cleared the intel with Simmons and the other big wigs. But he was tired of seeing her sitting on her bed, alone and sad, and he hated that he was part of what made her stay there. And. And he kind of wanted to be the cool guy, for once._

_So what the hell, Peter pushed the talk button on the speaker system, "They, uh…They got him I guess."_

_Sherry looked up from what she was reading- Peter snuck a peek and saw _Animal Farm _printed along its creased spine, he'd have to get a copy from the library when he got off work- and frowned in confusion, "Sorry?"_

_He cleared his throat and pushed up his glasses with the heel of his hand. As much as he…admired her, having her undivided attention was absolutely nerve-wracking, "Wesker!" Sherry winced. Shit, he kind of yelled that into the microphone, "Sorry, Wesker. The BSAA killed him in Africa-" the rest of his explanation fell off as he stared at her._

_Sherry Birkin had gone very, very still. And her face paled as the grip on her book went limp, _Animal Farm _toppling over onto the sterilized floor of her bedroom. It was a testament to Peter's priorities that he instantly grew concerned about her not finding her place again when she picked it back up._

_Silence hung between them, two armed guards, twenty feet, and a liberal amount of plexiglass. Peter bit down on his lower lip, tugging on the collar of his lab coat. Maybe it had been a bad idea to tell her? She looked upset. There was a rumor that Sherry had known Wesker from _before, _but rumors around this place flew faster than monkeys throwing shit so-_

"_Does that mean…" Sherry's voice was so quiet it was almost smothered by the sounds of the machines measuring her heart rate and brain waves._

_Peter gave what he hoped was a reassuring smile, "Yeah. I think you might be getting out of here soon."_

_He was _so_ going to be on beaker-cleaning-bitch duty for the next six months of the internship, but it was worth it to see actual joy in Sherry's expression for the first time._

**CHAPTER ONE: DEBRIEFED **  
WASHINGTON D.C.  
UNITED STATES OF AMERICA  
21 DECEMBER 2013

"_OH NO! The fight's out!-_"

Her fist connected against the solar plexus.

"_And I'm about to punch your LIGHT'S OUT-_"

An exhale and her leg swung into the man's ribs with a quick snap-kick.

"_Get the fuck back, guard your grill-"_

She followed the kick's momentum for a full turn. A backswing with her arm, and her elbow connected with the bridge of his nose.

"_There's something wrong, we can't stand still-"_

A quick grunt of triumph and she turned, swinging her leg up for another attack. The heel of her sneakered foot connected mercilessly with the top of the man's head on its descent.

"_-I've been drinking and busting two-"_

Her breathing was starting to come in pants as she swung out her fists in quick, boxer's jabs. Her workout shirt sported sweat stains as the rubber dummy received the ultimate beating of his rubber dummy life.

"_-and I've been thinking of busting you-_"

And then someone grabbed her shoulder from behind.

"_-upside your motherfucking forehead!"_

Instinctually, Sherry reached over and grabbed the man's wrist, using the momentum against her assailant and ducking low. The man was lifted slightly and then vaulted over her shoulder as she made the best of her low center of gravity. His hand snagged around the chord of her earbuds-

"_And if your friends jump in, OH GURL-_"

-and ripped them out of her ears before he tucked into a roll and stood up effortlessly, iPod dangling from his outstretched hand.

Sherry blinked as she processed what had just happened. Across from her stood a man gracefully stepping out of his thirties. Dressed in jeans, a navy t-shirt, and a black leather jacket, he radiated a casual air of "don't screw with me". Blond hair fell into his eyes as he stared at the earbuds in confusion.

Her eyes widened, as she stood, "Leon! I'm sorry I didn't mean to-"

He brushed her off with what passed for a smile on him- a faint tug at the corner of his mouth, "My mistake. Should know better than to sneak up on an agent."

…Even though she had been an agent for over two years, Sherry still felt a definite glow of pride hearing it being acknowledged by one of the two people she held in unconditional respect.

She took the interruption to run the back of her hand along her forehead, wiping off the sweat from her workout, "What are you doing here?"

Leon didn't answer, instead staring down at the innocent looking earbuds like they were new Los Plagas samples, "What the hell is this?"

"_MOVE, BITCH! GET OUT THE WAY-_"

Sherry could feel the hot flash of red burn up from her neck to the base of her ears, "Luda."

"What?"

"_GET OUT THE WAY, BITCH! GET OUT THE WAY!"_

"Ludacris. He raps."

"Wraps what?"

"Music."

"This is music?"

She shrugged apologetically before reaching for the earbuds. Leon let them slide from his fingers without any resistance, "It helps me time my kicks."

He sighed, shaking his head but the offended expression finally dropped from his face, "You've been working hard."

Overworking, more like it. In the last six months, the repercussions of Lanshiang had been dire for national security. Between the outbreak at Tall Oaks, the assassination of President Benford, and the revelation of Simmons' dark side, nearly every branch of government force had been upended, overturned, and shaken more than a pair of maracas. The C-virus had been stopped before it could go global, but it still managed to get a few punches in. Trust was scarce these days, and Simmons had destroyed not only the NSA, but the confidence and cooperation the agencies used to have in each other. USSS, CIA, DSO, NSA, BSAA, FBI, or any other acronym- it didn't matter. Tension was thick and those working in FOS had their work cut out for them.

Sherry looked down as she wrapped her earbuds' chord around her iPod, stowing it in the pocket of her worn gym sweatshirt; stifling the request for some bitches to presumably get out of the way, "Just trying to make a difference."

Her gaze was intent on the floor, so she missed the frown of concern growing in the corners of Leon's mouth, "You've already made plenty."

"Not really," Sherry glanced back up to Leon, "Not like you or Claire."

His stare, which Sherry was beginning to believe could puncture steel, bore into her before he spoke again, "…how is she?"

The younger agent smiled, glad that in his own reservedway, Leon had let her make her own decision. Sherry knew the older DSO agent would understand the need to be out in the field more than anyone, even Claire. After seeing what had happened in China, Sherry knew it would be impossible for her to ever have a desk job. There were monsters out there, and she had to do what she could to save the world from B.O.W.s. She'd been spared their fate for a reason.

_Super girl._

The nickname popped up in her brain from time to time, like a habit she couldn't kick.

"Claire's fine, but busy. All her e-mails come from the TerraSave server," Sherry made a big show of rolling her eyes, "And she tells me to take a vacation."

Leon smirked. "Married to the job. Can't imagine what that's like."

Sherry grinned, "Me either."

He lifted up his arm, pulling his jacket sleeve far enough back to reveal a wristwatch, "Debriefing's in twenty."

She felt a knot of dread sink in her stomach, "Sorry. Must have lost track of time."

Leon gave that titanium stare again, before jerking his chin in the direction of the DSO's locker rooms, "I'll wait."

Sherry grabbed her gym bag off the floor and jogged to go change out of her sweats. It wouldn't look good to be late to the first meeting with the new Chief Security Advisor.

* * *

The locker shut quietly as Sherry made quick work of the buttons on her shirt, tugging down on its tails after she was finished to straighten the crisp linen. It had been a while since it was required, but Sherry still knew how to line the creases, how to present herself in a formal meeting with a superior.

She bent over, folding her sweatshirt and moving to put it in her bag when a blinking blue light caught her attention. Sherry sighed, knowing it was her phone; the light was an indicator for a new message. Probably one of the fifty other agents or coordinators awaiting another report. That was the thing that never got mentioned in the movies: after the world was saved, the heroes had to file things in triplicate. Leon's plane crash alone had accrued several million dollars' worth of property damage, and for every civil suit that was resolved, three more sent out subpoenas.

Smoothing her short hair into something resembling order, Sherry exchanged her phone's place in the bag for her gym clothes, flipping it open.

_1 MESSAGE  
JAKE M_

A small, soft smile graced her features at the familiar name. Since China, she hadn't seen her former…protective charge. Too many external factors interfered: her work, his work, pending reports, pending court cases, training, restructuring the government, synthesizing his blood into a vaccine, distributing the vaccine…the list went on. And as much as she found herself missing the asshole, she was currently grounded from field work or leaving the country until Lanshiang was cleaned up and the government was tidy. Jake, not being an American citizen, had certainly gotten off easy with the pay cut. Imagining the mercenary up to his elbows in official statements did have its charms, however. If for no other reason than seeing Jake scowl a hole through them.

Despite everything, they were still able to stay connected. As pen pals.

Ignoring the fact that she had a debriefing in about ten minutes on the other side of the building, Sherry opened the message.

_Super girl. In New York. Here for three days…be nice to see you there._

Disappointment sunk like a rock in her stomach, and Sherry shut the phone without replying.

Debriefing first, figuring out Jake's bullshit second.

* * *

Five minutes later found Sherry and Leon sitting in the waiting room for the CSA's office, the latter staring at her as he folded a leg to rest on the opposite knee.

"You okay?"

Sherry took a deep breath, straightening out her shirt again. This was a no-wrinkle meeting, "I'm fine."

"You're sure?"

"Just some bad news. Don't worry about it."

"If you say so."

A buzz sounded from her pocket. Sherry quickly retrieved her phone from her waistcoat.

_1 MESSAGE  
JAKE M_

She hit open. Of course she hit open.

_You mad?_

Sherry sighed, shutting the phone closed. Yes, she was mad.

"Hot date?"

She snorted, sliding her finger over the screen to put her phone on silent, "No."

"I'll ask one more time, and then I'll leave it alone. Everything alright?"

Sherry went to say it was, but reconsidered her answer. "It's nothing I won't be able to handle. Personal problems."

Leon looked as if he were about to say something, but the secretary behind the desk pressed his ear piece to his head.

"Yes, yes. Of course." The aide looked up from his computer screen, "She'll see you now."

Leon stood, rolling his shoulders, "Ready to face the dragon?"

If Sherry didn't know the man next to her so well, she would have missed the flicker of humor in his expression as they walked into the office.

* * *

"And as you're no doubt aware, Agent Kennedy, while your…expedience in regards to the property damage forms on the charter plane incident has been noted, there are several discrepancies between the personal testimonies," Ingrid Hunnigan placed a simple manila folder in front of her, then opened it to several paper-clipped bunches of files.

Beside her, Leon arched a brow, "Such as?"

Hunnigan looked out at him over the rims of her glasses, "Such as the circumstances surrounding the actual crash."

"What was wrong with the report?"

"While yours and Agent Harper's accounts align, it's been noted that several passengers have testified to excessive use of force and, as a certain…" Hunnigan's lips pursed as she turned over a bundle, "Mr. Gregory McCaulson stated, 'The man flew us into buildings not even after five minutes of being behind the controls'."

Leon looked as if he wanted to protest, thought better of it, and instead asked dryly, "So. Rewrite?"

A ghost of a smile flashed on the new CSA's face, "Rewrite."

Leon wordlessly slid the manila folder to him.

Before their return from Lanshiang, Sherry had never met with the shining star of the FOS, but from what she understood, Ingrid Hunnigan was a capable, dedicated woman. And the only woman fit for the promotion, seeing as a multitude of organizations were waiting for the other multitudes of organizations to screw up somewhere, so the incident of Tall Oaks and the President's assassination could finally have a pinpointed source of blame. The CIA blamed the USSS, the USSS blamed the DOS, the FBI had it out for the BSAA- the finger pointing was endless. As the most elite unit of government's forces, the head of the DOS held a considerable amount of power and influence.

But they didn't need power. Too much power had gotten them into this situation. No, what the United States needed more than anything in this time of crisis was organization. Enter an efficient agent of the Field Operations Support, the only branch the others could tolerate. As little as Sherry knew about the political machinations of bureaucracy, even she could support Hunnigan's promotion as a smart move.

If nothing else, the woman was brutally competent with paperwork. Her admonishment of Leon complete, Hunnigan turned to face her.

"Agent Birkin, you've completed the write-up of the Muller case?"

That dull, disappointed sensation was back again. "Yes, sir."

Hunnigan nodded, "And Mr. Muller received the compensation he requested?"

All fifty dollars of it. Jake had been proud to inform her that he had spent it on a new jacket and a bottle of vodka, "Yes."

The CSA gave a thoughtful hum, withdrawing another file and flipping through it with purpose. She stopped about ten pages in, "As I suspected. Agent Birkin, do you have a finalized proof of transaction?"

A receipt? "…no, sir."

"Please see to it that one is drawn up and forwarded to Mr. Muller's current location, with a copy being faxed to Accounts Payable."

It was nice to know that Hunnigan was on their side.

"Yes, sir."

"Now, the real reason I've called you in," Hunnigan brushed the files to the side of her desk, folding her hands primly in its former place, "You'll be pleased to know that you've both been cleared to return to active field work."

Sherry's heart skipped a few beats in excitement. She hadn't even hoped there would be a possible end to the paperwork parade before the year ended.

"About time," was all Leon offered, though Sherry knew it didn't take psychic abilities to see he was just as relieved.

Hunnigan smiled, "I agree. Bio-terrorism doesn't stop just because we're up to our eyes in civil cases. Your files and reports have been reviewed by the action committee and international clearance has been returned. Access to service weapons has been made available." She faced Sherry, and Sherry wished she didn't see what looked like pity in the older woman's eyes, "Simmons' treason, if nothing else, exposed the liabilities of the chain of command and mission processing as they stood. I'm in the process of restructuring both to prevent further incidents like the one regarding Jakob Muller."

Sherry closed her eyes, taking a deep and steadying breath. Simmons wasn't her fault. She had been reminded, multiple times, that Simmons wasn't her fault.

It still felt like it was her fault. Even now, it stung to be reminded of how close she had been to delivering the exact ingredient necessary for global bio-organic decimation. How close she had been to another, bigger Raccoon. How close she had been to endangering Jake, to forcing him to be locked up in the basement of some research facility for the rest of his life while they poked and prodded at him with syringes and scalpels-

Leon tensed beside her, making Hunnigan shift slightly in her seat.

Sherry kept her expression calm.

Hunnigan cleared her throat after allowing her point to sink in, "Agent Birkin, you will report directly to me and one other agent for all your future assignments."

Another agent? Despite the lack of field experience, Sherry was still a fully-fledged member of the DSO. Whatever Simmons' prior involvement with her was, she had earned her title just like anyone else. Making her accountable to another agent was akin to saying she needed a babysitter. "Sir?"

"I'm afraid the matter is not up for discussion. Agent Kennedy will be your secondary point of contact effective immediately."

From Leon's expression, it was clear this was new information for him as well, "Now wait, if it wasn't for Sherry the vaccine-"

Hunnigan held up a hand, "For what it's worth, I agree completely on matters of Agent Birkin's merit," Sherry was met with her brown, earnest stare, "You went above and beyond the perimeters of your assignment, Agent Birkin. Please don't allow any other opinions to dissuade you of that."

Numbly, Sherry nodded, "Then why-?"

Hunnigan gave a pained sigh that contrasted with her matter-of-fact personality, "To be blunt? Politics. Many outside of the DSO view your connection with Simmons as circumspect at best, incriminating at worst. The unfortunate downside to a top secret mission is the details will not be made accessible outside the higher levels of the FOS and DSO," she rolled her shoulders back, sitting up straighter, "You will have to re-establish your reputation through successful missions before you can put Simmons behind you, where he belongs. I intend to help you with that,"

Hunnigan turned to Leon, "Agent Kennedy, you're dismissed. I look forward to seeing you at the gala tomorrow."

His face was fixed in a permanent scowl, a small comfort for her current situation. If nothing else, Leon was at least in her corner. Sherry knew that for a fact. He nodded to Hunnigan before briefly resting his hand on Sherry's shoulder, "We'll talk later."

"Okay," Sherry whispered, wishing she at least sounded more confident for a woman who ruined her career before it really began. He withdrew his hand and offered a morose looking smile before retreating.

Hunnigan watched the door until Leon walked through it, waiting to speak until it shut behind him.

"I have an assignment for you. Top secret and high priority."

Sherry's eyes went wide, "But you-"

"-just said that I intend to help you with Simmons. He was a, pardon my language, utter bastard and I hate to see good agents have their reputations sullied by scum." The older woman continued sharply, "So let's start by cleaning up one of his messes. I have every confidence that once you are returned to the field you'll prove you've earned your position in the Department of Security Operations- not that you haven't already."

She had struck her nearly speechless, "Thank you."

"Thank me after you've read the debriefing, Agent Birkin," Hunnigan turned to her computer, eyes dashing across the screen faster than Sherry had believed humanly possible, "The details will be delivered to your personal files in forty-eight hours. You will have an additional seventy-two hours to put your affairs in order and prepare for international travel."

She nodded. It felt good, to be given something to do. Something to accomplish. And as easily as changing from her sweats to her no-wrinkle linen shirt, Sherry resumed the role of an active government field agent. "Right. Expected mission duration?"

"Over six months."

"Understood."

A smile broke out on the stern woman's face, making her appear almost a decade younger, "Good," she paused, before seamlessly redirecting the conversation, "Have you been briefed on the security details for President Howe's gala tomorrow evening?"

Sherry grimaced. The gala had been organized by the former Vice President, and meant to serve as both a fundraising campaign for the North American chapter of the BSAA as well as a silent commendation ceremony. Silent, as those who were being commended were all being commended for top secret missions that stopped the potential global outbreak of the C-virus. Officially, it was a fundraiser and memorial dinner for President Benford. Unofficially, it was meant to be Howe's expression of thanks to those involved in Lanshiang and Tall Oaks.

It was going to be four hours of black-tie hell.

She and Leon were invited to represent the DSO on paper, and to be guests of honor off of it. Same with Chris, Helena…and Jake. Who obviously wasn't coming, though he no doubt received several invitations. Two from her.

She'd have to reply to him, eventually. Especially since it looked like she was going off the grid.

"Yes, sir."

"Very good. I trust I don't need to stress the importance of polite sociability?"

Because all of the agencies would be represented at the gala. Because all of the agencies were currently at each other's throats. Because Sherry secretly suspected Hunnigan had organized this on purpose to force mingling between them. And, as she understood now, to cement their reputations on a positive note.

"No, sir."

"Thank you, Agent Birkin. That will be all."

Sherry nodded politely at her dismissal, leaving the office and almost immediately checking her phone again.

4 MESSAGES  
JAKE M  
CLAIRE R (2)  
LEON K

…she'd check her phone later.

Right now, Sherry was in desperate need of a punching bag.

And probably more Ludacris.

And maybe a Long Island iced tea.

Whatever the specifics of her next assignment, Sherry had the steadfast knowledge that it would be a difficult one.

* * *

**Next Up: **A Fancy, Awful Party. Also more on Sherry's textual anger


End file.
